Chapter 3
three
. . .
His eyes lock with mine across the crowded room, and something inside me goes still—a prey animal sensing a predator.
The club continues to buzz around us, but the noise fades to a dull hum as Roman Wolfe watches me with the focused intensity of a man who has just identified exactly what he wants. And what he wants, impossibly, is me.
I should look away. Every instinct screams to break this connection, to disappear into the background where I belong. But I can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything but stare back at him like a rabbit hypnotized by a wolf.
Even from this distance, I can see the cold, assessing quality of his gaze.
His eyes are the color of storm clouds—not quite blue, not quite gray, but something dangerously in between.
His face is all sharp angles and hard planes, a sculpture carved from granite.
There's no smile, no indication of warmth.
Just that unwavering focus that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"Oh my god," Jessie hisses, digging her fingers into my arm. "He's looking at you."
I manage to break the connection long enough to glance at her. "Maybe he's looking at you," I say, though I know it's a lie. I felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch.
"No," she says, a note of concern in her voice. "It's definitely you. This is... unusual."
"Unusual how?" I ask, though part of me doesn't want to know.
Jessie leans closer, her perfume enveloping me in a cloud of expensive florals. "Roman Wolfe doesn't come to places like this. He doesn't need to. And he certainly doesn't... pursue women in the conventional sense."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper, "that he takes what he wants.
And what he wants, he keeps. The women in his life disappear into his world and emerge months later with vacant smiles and Swiss bank accounts.
" She gives me a significant look. "They say he's insatiable. And not exactly gentle."
A shiver runs down my spine—fear or something else, I'm not sure.
When I look back across the room, Roman Wolfe is still watching me, and now he's moving.
The crowd parts for him without him having to say a word.
Men who probably run Fortune 500 companies step aside with deferential nods.
Women follow him with hungry eyes, but he doesn't spare them a glance.
His trajectory is unmistakable. He's coming directly toward me.
"What do I do?" I whisper frantically to Jessie.
She looks torn between excitement and concern. "If you're smart? Run. If you're desperate? Stay right where you are."
I am desperate. But something tells me running from Roman Wolfe would be like trying to outpace a thunderstorm. Futile and potentially dangerous.
So I stay, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin in a show of confidence I don't feel. Around us, conversations have hushed. I feel the weight of curious stares, the electric anticipation in the air. This is apparently an event—Roman Wolfe selecting someone.
He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something subtle and expensive that reminds me of cedar forests and winter nights.
He's tall, at least a foot taller than my five-foot-five, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
Up close, I can see the perfect tailoring of his suit, the gleam of his platinum watch, the controlled power in his stance.
"You don't belong here," he says, his voice low and surprisingly soft, but with an edge that cuts through the ambient noise of the club.
Not what I expected. I blink, unsure how to respond to such a direct assessment.
"I was just thinking the same thing," I finally reply, honesty slipping out before I can stop it.
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or amusement. It's gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"What's your name?" The question is a command, not a request.
I hesitate, suddenly aware that giving this man my name feels significant, like crossing a threshold I can't return from. "Delilah," I say finally. "Delilah Monroe."
"Delilah," he repeats, and the way my name sounds in his mouth makes my stomach clench. He says it like he's tasting it, like he's claiming it for himself. "I'm Roman Wolfe."
"I know," I say, because pretending otherwise would be pointless.
A small, cold smile curves his lips. "Of course you do." His gaze leaves mine for the first time, traveling slowly down my body and back up again. It's not a leer—it's too controlled, too calculating for that—but I feel stripped bare nonetheless. "That dress doesn't suit you."
The criticism stings more than it should. "I didn't dress to impress you, Mr. Wolfe."
His eyebrows lift slightly. "No? Then why are you here, Delilah Monroe, if not to attract a benefactor?"
The blunt question leaves me speechless. Jessie was right—there's no pretense with him, no social niceties. Just raw, uncomfortable truth.
"I'm with my friend," I say, gesturing to Jessie, who has never looked so eager to disappear.
Roman doesn't even glance in her direction. "Your friend brought you here to find a wealthy patron. That's the only reason anyone comes to The Obsidian." His eyes narrow slightly. "What I'm curious about is why a woman like you would resort to such measures."
A woman like me. There's something in the way he says it that suggests he sees more than I want him to. "That's a rather personal question from a stranger," I manage.
"We're not strangers," he says with absolute certainty. "Not anymore."
Our fingers brush as he takes my barely-touched drink from my hand and sets it on the bar, and I feel a spark—static from the dry air, but it jolts me nonetheless. For a fraction of a second, something flashes across his face, an intensity that borders on pain, and I wonder if he felt it too.
"Come with me," he says, and it's not a request.
I should refuse. I should thank him for his interest and walk away. I should remember every warning Jessie just whispered about this man. Instead, I hear myself asking, "Where?"
"Somewhere we can talk without an audience." He glances around at the people pretending not to watch us, his expression hardening. "I don't share what's mine, not even in conversation."
What's mine. The possessive statement should alarm me. We've exchanged perhaps fifty words, and already he's claiming ownership. But instead of outrage, I feel a dangerous flutter in my stomach, a heat that has nothing to do with the vodka I barely drank.
"I'm not yours," I say, because I need to establish that boundary, even if it feels like I'm lying.
Roman's smile is slight but knowing. "Yet."
Before I can process that single, confident word, he places his hand on the small of my back.
The touch is light but proprietary, and heat radiates from the point of contact.
I expect Jessie to protest, to remind me of all the reasons this is a bad idea, but when I look back, she's staring at us with wide eyes and a slight shake of her head—whether in warning or disbelief, I can't tell.
Roman guides me through the club with the easy confidence of someone who never doubts his welcome.
We pass through a door I hadn't noticed before, down a hallway with even more subdued lighting, until we reach what appears to be a private lounge.
The room is smaller but no less luxurious than the main club—leather furniture in deep burgundy, a private bar along one wall, and windows overlooking the city from what must be at least thirty floors up.
With a start, I realize we're completely alone.
"Would you like a drink?" he asks, moving toward the bar.
"I shouldn't," I say automatically.
He pauses, turning back to me with that assessing gaze. "You don't trust me."
It's not a question, so I don't treat it as one. "I don't know you."
"But you will." He says it with such certainty that I almost believe him. He pours two glasses of what looks like whiskey, hands me one, then gestures to the sofa. "Sit."
I remain standing, a small act of defiance. "I prefer to stand."
His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes darkens. "You'll learn quickly that I don't appreciate disobedience, Delilah."
"I'm not yours to command, Mr. Wolfe," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
"Roman," he corrects. "And as I said—yet."
He takes a seat himself, stretching one arm along the back of the sofa, his posture relaxed but somehow still commanding. He studies me over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip, and I feel myself being categorized, assessed.
"Tell me why you're here," he says.
"I told you, my friend—"
"Not the surface reason. The real one." His gaze pins me in place. "What desperate circumstances drove an intelligent, educated woman to consider selling herself to strangers?"
The blunt assessment makes me flinch. "I'm not—"
"Don't lie to me," he cuts in, his voice still quiet but edged with steel. "Not now, not ever. I detest dishonesty."
Something in his tone—not cruel but implacable—makes me reconsider my automatic denial. I take a sip of the whiskey, welcoming the burn, buying time to think.
"Money," I finally say, deciding on honesty. "I need money."
"Everyone needs money," he dismisses. "Be specific."
I bristle at his demanding tone, but what's the point in hiding it?
"I'm about to be evicted from my apartment.
I'm going to be administratively withdrawn from my graduate program because I can't pay tuition.
My bank account is overdrawn, and I have no family to help me.
" Each admission feels like removing a brick from a wall I've carefully constructed. "Satisfied?"
Roman's expression doesn't change, but his eyes track every microexpression on my face, every shift in my posture. "And you thought the solution was to find a wealthy man to take care of you."
When he says it like that, it sounds both pathetic and calculating. "It wasn't my idea. But yes, I'm desperate enough to consider it."
He sets his glass down and leans forward, elbows on his knees, fixing me with that penetrating stare. "And what would you be willing to do for this financial salvation, Delilah?"
My cheeks heat with shame or anger or something in between. "I don't know. I hadn't gotten that far."
"Yes, you have," he contradicts softly. "You've already drawn your lines, set your boundaries. Tell me what they are."
I shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny. "Why does it matter to you?"
"Because I want to know exactly how desperate you are." The brutal honesty of his statement leaves me momentarily speechless. "And because I intend to test those boundaries."
My heart stutters in my chest. "You... what?"
Roman stands in one fluid motion and steps toward me.
I should back away, but my feet remain rooted to the spot as he invades my personal space, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
He doesn't touch me, but I feel the heat of his body, the electric charge in the air between us.
"From the moment you walked into this club, you were mine," he says, each word precise and measured. "I knew it. Every person out there knew it." He brings his hand up, not quite touching my face, letting it hover a breath away from my cheek. "I think even you knew it."
I want to deny it. I want to laugh at his arrogance, his presumption.
But there's something in his eyes—something hungry and possessive and absolutely certain—that makes the denial die in my throat.
Because he's right. From the moment our eyes met across the room, I felt claimed in a way I can't explain and don't want to acknowledge.
"You don't even know me," I whisper.
"I know enough," he counters. "I know you're intelligent, educated, and proud.
I know you're desperate but still maintaining boundaries.
I know you're afraid of me, but you're still standing here.
" His lips curve in a slight smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"And I know that no other man in that room deserves to touch you. "
The possessiveness in his voice should repel me. Instead, it sends a shameful thrill through my body. "And you think you do?"
"Yes." The single word contains no doubt, no hesitation. "But not yet. Not until you belong to me completely."